


for a boy, for a body in the garden

by Re_White



Series: symbols of a high romance [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Table Sex, highly questionable coping methods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 14:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10618863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Re_White/pseuds/Re_White
Summary: They sleep and fuck on sheets that don't smell like Jim anymore.





	

They sleep and fuck on sheets that don't smell like Jim anymore.

*

The Mojave is shades of burnt yellow, and iron tan, hot desert sand scraping the twisted branches of bare black trees.

Pike trudges through the dust and stinging wind, feels his exposed face go prickly and raw as his eyes burn with grit. He tries, stupidly, to catch a flicker of light in the sky that he can pretend is the _Enterprise_. The dirty saffron of gathering clouds swallows the light.

When he finally gets back to the house McCoy is there, weary and worn, as dried out and tearless as he is.

They fuck in Pike's kitchen with grasping hands and rough mouths, trying to catch and keep as much of Jim as they can.

*

McCoy is all sharp, lean angles these days, hair a floppy mess, his face darkened with ever present stubble, the skin under his eyes bruised with sleeplessness. He looks like he needs a meal and a nap, but the best Pike can get from him most of the time is a curse, a hard fuck, or a shot of bourbon whenever Pike tries to take care of him.

*

Pike isn't the only one leaving marks on McCoy anymore, and he's not sure he cares for it.

McCoy stinks of whatever bar he was kicked out of, bloody and crackling along the edges with pent up energy that makes Pike break out into a prickly sweat. He tosses the tricorder up on the kitchen table next to McCoy.

"Fourth time this week."

McCoy licks his split lip, eyes dark and voice gravely with exhaustion and the burn of cheap whiskey.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You need to knock this off."

"Blow me."

Pike crowds him, stepping between his legs and grabbing his jaw roughly. They don't ever kiss gentle, it's always the click of teeth and hard tug of greedy fingers, trying to catch a whiff of a hint of a long gone Jim on each other, the stab of desire clamoring a decibel higher than the voice that rails at how pathetic this is, how sick, to fuck out a desperate memory of Jim onto McCoy - who's too drunk and angry to care.

Pike bites at his mouth and briefly fumbles at McCoy's belt buckle before yanking the battered blue jeans open enough to get at what he wants. McCoy is hard and familiar on his tongue, and nothing at all like Jim. He digs his thumbs into the narrow dips of McCoy's hips and rides it when he bucks under his mouth, panting broken moans into the darkness of the kitchen, hoarse cries falling somewhere between the stupidness of lust and strangled grief.

Pike remembers how much Jim used to laugh during sex, flush and pink all over with the filthiest smile he'd ever seen, and if his heart lurches painfully at the thought, even as he hardens for the needy tug of McCoy's fingers through his hair, then that's his own damn business.

Pike breathes through his nose and takes McCoy deep as he can. He drags one hand up McCoy's flat, trembling belly, scratching at whatever he can, eyes watering when McCoy's grip tightens uncomfortably.

He comes with a muffled noise that wants to be _Jim_ , and Pike isn't sure if it's reward or punishment when he swallows and goes for McCoy's mouth, lips wet and tingling, struggling to pull the rest of his jeans down while McCoy toes off his shoes, fingers fighting with Pike's trousers.

Pike fucks McCoy across the kitchen table, face buried in the crook of his shoulder.

*

"The thing is, you can love a star ship, but it can't love you back. In the end she's just metal and working parts powered by heat and light and if she seems alive it's only because she's full of people who are." Jim flexes under him and drags the heel of his foot up the small of Christopher's back, dry skin stuttering over the splay of scar tissue at the base of his spine. "When a captain says he loves his ship what he really means is that he loves what his ship stands for."

Christopher hums and skirts his teeth across the rosy red of Jim's nipple.

"And what does a ship stand for, Captain Kirk?"

"Hmmm, movement." There's a broken hitch of breath -his or Jim's he doesn't know- as he pushes in. "Adventure?" Christopher offers, fingers crawling up the taut muscle of Jim's thigh.

"Mmm, hmm." Jim nips lightly at him, his lips swollen and wet and he doesn't taste like anything but salt and spit anymore but it's good. "Ah. And adventure. There, fuck – please." Christopher rocks into him, watching the way Jim's mouth tries to form actual words around the _yesyesyeses_ of his working hips. They move faster now, Christopher slipping a hand between them, seeking out the hard needy flesh there.

For a long moment it's just noise, cock and the hot clench of Jim's body – Christopher dragging out all his secrets and tasting them because he can, because Jim wants him to.

"And what else?" he asks raggedly, the threat of orgasm ripping his voice apart.

Jim groans and slides the damp palms of his hands down Christopher's back, the rough tips of his fingers ghosting messages across flexing, sweaty skin and the sharp jut of bone.

"A ship stands for crew." Jim says it the way other people might say family. "S'what he loves about her."

"And when she's gone? What does a captain love then?"

Jim's head tips back, throat bared in the soft buttery light of Christopher's bedroom.

"Whatever's left."


End file.
